


i'll crawl home to her

by jolie_unfiltrd



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AU: Dickon Lives, Alternate Universe, And at least once she deserves someone who wants her, ENTER DICKON TARLY, F/M, For pure aesthetic purposes, Friends to Lovers, In all of my AUs Dickon is alive somewhere, Jolie's Quarantine Quick Fics, Like, Pre-Battle of Winterfell | Final Battle Against the White Walkers, Sansa Stark Deserves Better, Tribute to YouTube Video, also, desperately
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:14:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23788414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jolie_unfiltrd/pseuds/jolie_unfiltrd
Summary: Dickon lives, and when he comes to Winterfell with the remainder of the Lannister soldiers, he sees a familiar face.*totally inspired by the killerYouTube video by AerisVideos of the same title.
Relationships: Sansa Stark/Dickon Tarly
Comments: 15
Kudos: 103





	i'll crawl home to her

**Author's Note:**

> so, i found this in my drafts from FOREVER ago and decided to finish it and post it, in the spirit of quarantine quick fic fun where i write what i want when i want and post it without thinking too hard about it. 
> 
> seriously, go check out the [video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t_D7wOxIEUY) by AerisVideos first (because it is LOVELY and i am responsible for a zillion views) and then come back & read this. 
> 
> as always, you can come fangirl with me on tumblr at [jolieunfiltrd](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/jolieunfiltrd) over game of thrones, harry potter, a myriad of other things, and my most recent obsession (knives out) due to my most long-standing obsession (CHRIS EVANS).

When shouts had sounded that Lannister soldiers were marching on Winterfell, Sansa had nearly forgotten herself in her mad dash to get to the courtyard, skirts flying around her ankles and a flush rising on her cheeks as she strode forward.  
  
Tyrion had written - not Jon, she thought bitterly - that it might be the case, that the defeated Lannister forces that now chose to serve under Daenerys Targaryen would reach Winterfell before they did. She had suspected as much, though had anticipated the cold and the snow and the bitter wind would have slowed their progress even more. Perhaps they were eager enough to get to a campsite, a meager town nearby with women to warm their beds, meals to eat and ale to sip…  
  
It had been lucky that a portion of their supply train had been spared the dragon fire. Otherwise, they would have been short on supplies for the men she now had to host. It had been lucky that the Targaryen women hadn’t been near after she heard of the total slaughter of men and supplies in the name of war, in the name of battle. Sansa, with a grim smile, knew she would have lost her as an ally after the tongue-lashing had been through. What had she been _thinking?_  
  
Sansa knew what mercy looked like, knew what choice looked like, and this bedraggled, shivering mess of an army staggering up to her gates had known neither. Her mind flashed back, unwittingly, to golden hair and blue blue hairs and the bruises that never seemed to fully go away on her pale skin.  
  
The gates opened, and the stream of Lannister men began.  
  
Brienne stepped up to her shoulder, shaking her from her reverie, and she set her shoulders back, the quietly capable Lady of Winterfell once more. “How many soldiers?” she asked as they trudged by, trying to count but losing herself in the numbers as they headed to the Great Hall, to be debriefed on lodging and food and the strict expectations of the behavior here in Winterfell. Officers only, she deduced by the decorations on their armor, and the polish of their boots, gleaming even under mud and snow. The rest would camp outside, for the time being.  
  
Brienne gave her the number - in the thousands, thank the gods, the dragon queen hadn’t burned them all - then pursed her lips to the side. The unanswered questions hung between them both. _How many do I have to feed, how many do we have to fight, how many can we trust?_  
  
“I don’t like this, milady.”  
  
How many will run away at the first glimpse of the army of the dead?  
  
Sansa sighed and murmured that she didn’t care for it either, but what choice did they have? To turn them away? Winterfell, whether the dragon queen liked it or not, was quickly becoming the central position for the battle against the army of the dead, the ideal place to get supplies, nourishment, care for their injuries. Sansa curled her once-delicate hands into fists at her side before releasing them, reminding herself why she did this. She wanted to be loved, that’s true. And the people adored her, that was clear as well. But it wasn’t enough.

  
She had to dwell on the horrors of the past as well, the hate in Cersei’s eyes, the threats that followed her across the land, across time, woven into nightmares. Sansa was certain Cersei would not allow herself to die until she knew the little dove was dead. A sad smile crossed her face, albeit briefly. The little dove Cersei had met seemed a lifetime away. She knew who she was now. No little dove, but a fearsome wolf. She would protect her people, she would bring them through this war, and they would love her, she thought fiercely.  
  
Towards the back of the Lannister procession, a man leading his horse caught her eye - broad shoulders, prominent jawline even under the scruff of his beard - and she blinked, taken aback at the memories that swarmed over her, all at once, even as he disappeared from view.  
  
“I had no friends in King’s Landing,” she had told Arya, “except one.”  
  
_“I believe you’ve met my son -“_  
  
“My lady? Are you alright?” Brienne asked, a hand to her elbow even as she regained her footing.  
  
Sansa nodded slowly, before her feet took her, of their own volition, to the front of the crowd gathered in the courtyard, as the group of men with their horses sauntered through the gates. She had to see - had to be sure - if it was him -  
  
She inhaled sharply and stepped back, mouth open and eyes wide.  
  
_-“Dickon Tarly.”_  
  
_“Lady Sansa.”_  
  
Bruised and battered, blood on his crimson cape, he somehow looked more magnificent, more real, than he ever had in King’s Landing, where all had seemed a farce, a play to be put on for others. Where she had been a stupid, silly porcelain doll, where her dreams had gone to waste.  
  
But she was a wolf now, with new dreams. And though she had tried to forget almost everything from her time as a dove, there had been one man that haunted her in waking hours and in the depths of the night, one name she could not forget, one name that fell from her lips unthinkingly during her prayers to the old gods.

So, she stepped forward into the snow, feeling her cloak trail on the muddied ground, boldly making her way up to him, waiting until his eyes caught on hers.  
  
She felt it happen in slow-motion. The way he walked, nearly dragging his feet - they must have walked alongside the horses to spare them the burden on the long journey - the way his eyes dragged listlessly across the crowd gathered to greet them, before ricocheting back to the brightness of her hair against the endlessly grey background of Winterfell. His green eyes traversed the curve of her cheek, the bitten pink of her lips, the pale column of her neck, bared to the cold that didn’t bother her - not like the dizzying heat of the Red Keep - down the curves of her body underneath the dark gown she wore, and back up to her face.  
  
He met her eyes squarely, and stopped in his tracks before her, across the courtyard, dropping the reins of his horse into the snow, recognizing her beneath the veneer she wore of the Lady of Winterfell. Sansa took a strange delight in the widening of his green eyes, in the wonder within them, in the way he strode toward her without another care in the world, his eyes locked on her form. The horse, unconcerned, leant down to munch at the grass that had made its way through the morning’s snowfall.  
  
Her blood rushed through her body at an alarming pace, making every heartbeat before this one seem sluggish and meaningless and dreadfully slow. She let her eyes journey from the top of his head - hair bedraggled from sleeping in dirt and against trees - to the toes of his boots - far too thin for the winter to come, admiring the span of his shoulders and the narrow cut of his waist, the way he felt too big for his skin, too powerful, and yet she felt completely, utterly safe. This man had listened to her weep, rail against the gods, stare at him with eyes full of desire, but had never asked anything in return for his silence, his friendship, the rose he left in her room with when he thought no one would notice. He was perhaps the only man she’d ever known that offered his favor and friendship with no strings attached.  
  
Sansa swallowed and stepped forward, allowing a rare smile to lift her lips as she looked up at him. Gods, she’d forgotten how tall he was.  
  
Brienne barely suppressed a snort, and she realized that the words must have escaped her, to her horror. A flush spread across Dickon’s cheeks just as it bloomed on hers, even as he dropped to one knee in front of her.  
  
“Lady Sansa,” he said, bowing his head respectfully. “Is this better?” he murmured under his breath, looking up at her with eyes full of laughter, a grin playing at the corner of his lips.  
  
She couldn’t resist - the joy she felt at seeing him again was all-consuming - and grinned back at him, unabashed and unladylike and so, _so_ happy.  
  
“Much, Lord Tarly,” she paused, wondering how much she should say, and what ears could be listening - before gesturing for him to rise. While the look of him on his knees was undeniably appealing, there were those who might read into it, who might think about loyalties to the Lannister wife she had once been. “I was sorry to hear about your father, my lord.”

Dickon nodded somberly, something like terror flashing in his eyes, and she felt a renewed rage for the threat of dragonfire and for Jon, for bringing the dragon queen to their doorstep. For one moment, she didn't care that they'd need the dragons in the fight to come, she _hated_ them, hated the diminuitive blonde woman who ordered them all about as if she was already queen of Westeros. For just one moment, or maybe several more, she ached to take Dickon into her arms and comfort him, the way he had once held her in the Red Keep, what seemed now like a lifetime ago. 

"I am happy to see you, Lady Sansa, back in Winterfell," he said. _Where you belong_ \- it is unsaid, between them, but a given, all the same. 

She couldn't help the shy smile that spread across her face, as she replied: "I am happy to see you, Lord Tarly." 

"Dickon, please," he requested. 

"Sansa, then, just as it used to be." She offered her hand, and he caught it, bringing it up to his mouth to press a gentle kiss to her knuckles, and she thought that maybe, some things may change from the way they had been years ago, all too aware of the flush traversing up the side of her neck. 

No longer a girl and a boy, but a woman and a man, who had seen war and understood loss and knew the true value of trust. 

No longer a boy who would not dare to touch her, but a man who looked as though he'd happily sweep her into his arms, propriety be damned. 

No longer a frightened girl, but a woman grown, who would happily go into his arms - but not here, not with so many eyes around them, with so few people that she trusted. 

But she could give him this. She could step closely and look up at him through her lashes in an old trick that never felt more genuine, could grasp his broad, calloused hands within her own and whisper: “I prayed for your safe return, my lord.” 

Dickon's gaze filled with understanding, and he bowed his head in deference to the emotion in her eyes. “It seems some prayers are answered after all.” 

"So it seems," she murmured, before leading them through the gates and into the hall, letting her gaze linger on his form, trying to quell the girlish laughter threatening to burst forth as she felt his eyes on her, too. 

**coda:**

Sansa was a patient woman, but she felt about to burst at the seams, leaning against the wall in the shadowy corridor late in the evening, her dressing gown wrapped around her tightly. 

Footsteps sounded down the hallway, and she would have recognized their cadence from years ago, when identifying the right or wrong person could have meant her death. Still, when Dickon rounded the corner, she sighed in relief and stood to greet him. 

"Sansa," he breathed, handsome face set in shadows from the torches half-lit in the narrow hallway, and he'd never looked more handsome, or looked at her with his heart broadcast quite so clearly on his face. So when he stepped close to her, awaiting her nod, she wasn't surprised when he took her face in her hands and kissed her as if he'd been waiting his whole life to do so. 

She kissed him back as if it's the only thing she'd thought about in the years since she'd met him, wrapping her arms around his neck and raising on her toes to press the long line of her body against his, not caring as her dressing robe fell open, not protesting as he pressed her back against the wall, not caring that they were in the hallway and that someone could come upon them at any moment. Dickon broke the kiss to lean his forehead to hers, tenderly brushing her cheeks with his thumbs. 

"Is this okay-" he started to ask, before she interrupted him with a coy smile, wrapping her arms around his waist and pulling him closer, nodding and murmuring an invitation into his ear. 

"Come to my chambers?" she asked, before laughing quietly at the surprised look on his face. 

"I wouldn't want to presume, Sansa-" and it is then that Sansa is reminded that the girl he knew was propriety incarnate, followed all of the rules, did what her mother would have wished, and where had it gotten her? She would play the rules of the game, she would do what was necessary for her people, but when it came to her own pleasure, she refused to deny herself any longer. 

And right now, she wanted nothing more than Dickon Tarly spread across her bed, flushed and panting from her kisses, from her touches. She wanted to straddle his hips wantonly and - it was difficult to put a name to this desire, an image to the myriad of fantasies swirling within her head. 

"If you want me, I want you," she said, simply, pressing a gentle kiss to his brow. It does not have to be said that the battle against the dead approaches, that there are only so many chances to come together, to give in to this tension between them. 

Dickon examined her face closely for any signs of doubt, any deception, and finding none, he swept her up within his arms, wrapping his arms around her waist and leaning down to kiss her so soundly she had a hard time remembering her name. "Then yes," he murmured in-between peppering kisses along her jawline and down the pale slope of her throat. "I want you, Sansa Stark. It feels like I always have." 

She broke away from him, breathless with desire and took his hand within her own. "It feels like I wanted you before I knew what wanting _was_ ," she says quietly, in the space between them, before wrapping her gown around her waist and sliding her hand in the crook of his arm, to escort him to her chambers, heart hammering within her chest with every step, but never was she more sure about what she wanted, about who she wanted. 


End file.
